


Knock Three Times

by Nichneven13



Category: 5 Seconds of Summer (Band), One Direction (Band)
Genre: AU, Agoraphobia, Anxiety, Demisexual Harry Potter, Falling In Love, Friends to Lovers, In Medias Res, M/M, Work In Progress
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-12-14
Updated: 2016-12-19
Packaged: 2018-09-08 15:44:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,040
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8850718
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nichneven13/pseuds/Nichneven13
Summary: Harry is a driver for a disability services company. Michael suffers from severe agoraphobia. The two connect through conversations held exclusively through Michael's closed door.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I'm trying this out. Let me know if it's viable.
> 
> Title from "Knock Three Times" by Tony Orlando, because damn I'm old. :)

“Why are there flowers with this order?” Liam asks with a furrowed brow as he scans the order form to double check it. “I don’t see flowers on here.”

“Those are mine,” Harry says, snatching the bouquet out of the sturdy brown paper bag, where he had nestled them amongst milk and orange juice to keep the bright yellow daisies perky. “I just stuck them in there so I wouldn’t forget to take them to my car.”

“Okay,” Liam says, handing Harry the delivery slip and closing the trunk on the three brown bags and a mesh bag of oranges. “See you tomorrow.”

Harry waves at Liam and tries his best to keep his cool as he climbs behind the wheel. It’s his last delivery of the day; it always is. It’s also his favorite delivery. Every Monday and Thursday, Harry drives to the farthest point of their delivery area to drop off groceries for an agoraphobic man he’s never seen. He knows his name is Michael Clifford and he knows that he prefers vanilla-flavored almond milk and mint chip Halo Top frozen yogurt. He knows that Michael orders a bunch of bananas every Monday and Thursday, but oranges only on Thursday. He knows that the man uses Colgate toothpaste and Old Spice deodorant. These are the things he knows because he delivers groceries and goods to Michael.

But he also knows that Michael plays guitar and reads Pablo Neruda even though he doesn’t believe in love. He knows that Michael has an anchor tattooed on his left thumb and an X on his middle finger. He knows that Michael hasn’t left his apartment in three months.

When Harry had joined Liam in his company, Little Things, he’d done it because he needed a job. They had both been at university together, studying psychology. Liam’s company provided assistance to members of the disability community, including deliveries, rides, and handyman services. Harry hadn’t expected the work to be rewarding.

He pulls the emergency brake into place, grabs the flowers and a book from his front seat, and scurries from the car to Michael’s apartment building. He has to turn back around before hitting the buzzer when he realizes he’d forgotten the groceries.

“Hello?” Michael’s voice came soon after Harry had pressed the button beside the number 5.

“It’s Harry,” Harry says. “I come bearing fruit!”

The buzzer sounds and Harry uses his shoulder to push into the lobby of the building. He takes the stairs to the second floor and walks down the long hallway until he’s standing in front of Michael’s door. It’s at the very end, facing the trash shoot.

A tiny door is fashioned into the lower portion of the main door. Harry can hear a series of locks unhooking from the miniature door and then it is tentatively pulled open.

“Hey, man,” Harry says, dropping to his knees in front of the open space. “How’re you doing?”

“Meh,” Michael says, which is what he always says, so Harry isn’t overly concerned. His voice reminds Harry of the first sunshine after a thunderstorm. “I’ve got something for you.”

“Awesome,” Harry enthuses, twisting to push the first grocery bag through the hole that is perfectly sized for them to slide through. He watches Michael’s tattooed hands pick up the bag before he pushes the second and third through. “Why don’t you put away the cold stuff first? I’ll be here.”

“Thanks,” Michael closes the tiny door and secures the many locks, even though he’ll have to reverse the procedure in just a couple of minutes in order to talk . Through the wood of the door, Harry hears him say: “Back in a sec.”

Harry settles onto his bum and crosses his legs, waiting. He’s got the flowers and book beside him, waiting for after Michael reappears. They’ve been doing this for a few weeks now, and Harry isn’t sure exactly how they went from grunting hellos to each other to sitting on the floor with the closed door between them to have extended chats. He hasn’t told anyone, not even Niall, who knows everything about Harry, right down to his blood type and the circumference of his thighs (don’t ask).

The locks on the door jiggle and the door opens as far as the little chain permits. Just enough for them to carry on a conversation without yelling at each other. Those first few times, it had been frustrating, as words were muffled by the thick wood.

“I’m back, here,” Michael’s fingertips appear in the sliver of space and dropped a piece of paper rolled into a scroll. Harry tries desperately to read clues off of the two inches of skin Michael deigned to reveal, but it happened so quickly, so unexpectedly, that all he got was confirmation that his fingernails are blunted and chewed down.

“Another one?” Harry asks. He unfurls the paper to see two pages sheet music with notes scrawled in pencil, with lyrics above in tight little letters that screamed a passionate sort of control. He scans it quickly, fingers itching to play it on his guitar. “Is this the one you were working on last week?”

“Yeah,” Michael says, his voice a bit breathless, like it gets when he’s nervous. “I finally figured out the hook last night. I couldn’t wait to give it to you.”

“This looks sick,” Harry says, mentally humming the tune. “I’ll bring my guitar next time. We can play it together, yeah?”

“ _Yeah_ ,” Michael agrees. Harry can hear him shifting around on the opposite side of the door. “I’d like to hear how it sounds with a harmony. I’ve got a rhythm part written, too; I’ll play that if you play lead.”

“You should play lead,” Harry says, just like he always does, even though he knows Michael will refuse. It’s like this every time Michael presents a new song. He makes Harry promise to play the song—both here in this hallway and on stage. As soon as Michael scoffs at Harry’s suggestion for him to play lead, Harry puts down the song and picks up the gift he brought. “I brought you something, too.”

“You mean other than my Spaghetti-O’s?” Michael laughs.

“I’m going to pretend you don’t actually eat those. Here, it’s a book,” Harry says as he slides the book into the gap in the tiny door. It’s his own dog-eared copy of _The Prophet_ by Khalil Gibran. The book is tugged out of his hands and into the apartment. Before he loses his nerve, he dances his fingertips on the wood, knocking, asking for entry. “There’s something else. Can you open this a little more?”

“What is it?” Michael asks warily. Harry knows the rules; Michael doesn’t like surprises.

“It’s lame,” Harry says, licking his lips and pushing his hair behind his ears in a nervous gesture he’s glad Michael can’t see. “I mean, I want to give them to you, but I don’t want to tell you what it is. Is that stupid?”

“A little,” Michael says, deadpan.

“It’s flowers,” Harry blurts and shoves the bouquet close to the door. His palms sweat and he feels like an utter tit. Here he is, sat on a dirty public hallway, trying to give flowers to a boy—man?—he has never seen and will likely never will. “I know you haven’t seen, like, nature in a while. And it’s springtime and the flowers are blooming and you deserve a little beauty. So yeah, flowers.”

Harry’s rambling explanation is met by silence, save the whisper of Michael’s breath against the door. He drops his face into his hands and props his elbows on his knees. He’s a tit, that is the god’s honest truth.

And then the little door opens and Michael’s hand wraps around the base of the bouquet, pulling them through and closing the door all the way. Harry blinks in surprise; he doesn’t know what the closed door means. It’s never happened before, at least not until after Harry says his goodbyes and promises to see him with the next delivery. The locks have not been secured, so Harry stays put, waiting. It doesn’t take long for the door to crack back open again.

“The petals feel like velvet,” Michael whispers, his voice barely carrying to Harry’s straining ears. Harry scoots closer to the door, bending low. “I had forgotten. They’re lovely. Thank you.”

“Yeah, of course,” Harry says, reaching out to press the palm of his hand to the wood in front of his face. Not the little door, of course. He would never push against that one.

“Hey, Harry?”

“Yeah?”

“Sometimes,” Michael starts and has to clear his throat before he can continue. “Sometimes, it’s lonely in here.”

“I know,” Harry says, because even though he doesn’t _know_ , he can imagine.

“It’s not so lonely when you’re here,” Michael says.

Harry leans his forehead against the door and sighs quietly. He wants to kick it down and force himself into Michael’s apartment. He wants to shake the man he’s come to know until his anxieties fall around his feet. He wants to yell at him for being so stupid to think locking himself in his house is a viable life plan.

“Every Monday and Thursday,” is what Harry says instead. “Or, you know, you could call me whenever.”

Harry has offered his number to Michael no fewer than thirteen times. He’s rejected every time, even though he’s not sure why. Michael wouldn’t have to leave the house to talk to him, but Harry doesn’t pretend to understand the intricacies of anyone’s anxieties. This job has taught him that he will never be able to wrap his head around what other people contend with on a daily basis. But the thing is, he _likes_ Michael. Not the same way he likes Ms. Beatty, who he drives to her weekly appointments to check her PT/INR. And definitely not the same way he likes Chuck, who has to open and close his door four separate times – locking and unlocking each time—before he can let Harry in with his weekly meals. No, he likes Michael in a way that tugs at his stomach late at night when he’s lying in bed. He has no idea what Michael looks like, or even exactly how old he is, but none of that matters to Harry. He likes Michael in a way that makes him yearn to date the hell out of him.

“Okay,” Michael says, jarring Harry out of his thoughts. “Gimme your number. Here’s mine.”

A scrap of paper is slid across the floor, guided into the hallway by Michael’s index finger. On it is a series of digits, Michael’s name, and a lopsided smiley face. Harry’s own finger traps the paper against the floor, and for a moment, they are physically closer than ever before. A sparse two inches separate their fingers from touching, and when Michael doesn’t instantly pull back into the apartment, Harry is tempted to reach across those inches to touch the other boy’s pale skin.

He doesn’t.

“You ready?” Harry asks after coughing away the lump in his throat. At Michael’s assent, he rattles off his own number, as he runs his fingers over the smiley face Michael drew. He shakes himself and turns so his back is pressed into the wall beside the apartment door. “So, how far did you get with Game of Thrones?”

The conversation plays out like it usually does; talking about television shows and new music, each offering the other suggestions and mocking each other for poor choices. Harry stays until his butt falls asleep and his phone starts buzzing with Niall’s impatience. It’s Harry’s turn to cook dinner (it’s _always_ Harry’s turn to cook dinner).

“I’ve got to go,” Harry says with a sigh. He heaves himself to his feet and shakes his legs out, but doesn’t move to leave. “Niall might start eating his own foot if I don’t get home to make him something.”

“Niall should discover the miracle of Spaghetti-O’s,” Michael says. Harry hears him clamber to his feet and suddenly, his voice is muffled, but closer to Harry’s face. Harry presses his ear to the door to hear him better. “Maybe then you won’t have to be his kitchen bitch.”

“I’m making cupcakes tonight,” Harry says. He hadn’t intended to bake tonight, but as soon as the words came out, he knew he wanted to. “Can I bring you some tomorrow?”

“It’s not your normal delivery day,” Michael points out.

“It won’t be a normal delivery,” Harry says. “I want you to taste my culinary brilliance. I can’t believe I haven’t baked for you before. I can come during my lunch break. Will you be here?”

Michael laughs loudly.

“Oh shit,” Harry groans and bangs his forehead against the door, making a knocking sound. He can’t believe he just said that. “I can’t believe I just said that. I’m an idiot. I’m sorry.”

“Are you kidding me?” Michael asks, gasping between bouts of giggles. “That was hysterical.”

“I’m so sorry.”

“Guess you’ll have to make me cupcakes to make it up to me.”

“I can do that,” Harry rushes to say. “I’m so sorry. I’ll see you tomorrow, yeah?”

“Yeah,” Michael says, a smile evident in his voice. “Oh and Harry?”

“Yeah?”

“I’ll be here.”

To Be Continued


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short update!

“When do I get to meet this friend?” Niall asks Harry over dinner that night. He’s poring over the sheet music Harry handed him, nodding every so often, as if he’s agreeing with the lyrics or choice of chords. “He writes killer songs and it’s not fair that you won’t let me into your super-secret song writing club, dick.”

“It’s not that big of a deal,” Harry says, picking his empty plate up and heading to the sink to wash it. He’s got a batch of cupcakes to make. “He doesn’t like groups; prefers to work one-on-one.”

“And he’s cool with us playing his songs?” Niall hands his plate over to Harry and reaches for his guitar. “Not that I’m complaining. These songs make us sound like legit bad asses. That ‘Amnesia’ one has gotten me laid four times.”

“Four different times,” Harry asks. “Or all at once?”

“Oh my god,” Niall’s fingers slip off the strings of his guitar, resulting in a twanging strum that’s hard on Harry’s ears. “Four girls _at once_? Christ, Harry, who do you think I am, Superman? No man alive could handle four girls in a bed _at once_.”

“If anyone could, it’d be you.”

“Damn straight,” Niall grins and replaces his fingers so he can play through Michael’s song, which is called ‘Castaway’. Harry hasn’t even played it yet and he tries hard not to begrudge Niall first dibs. “Anyway, you sure he doesn’t mind?”

“He wants them played,” Harry says as he gathers his baking tools from under the counter. He wishes he’d thought to ask Michael what kind of cupcakes are his favorite, but if judging by the chocolate chip cookies and the mint chip frozen yogurt, Harry’s going to assume chocolate is acceptable. Just in case, he’s decided on a simple yellow cake with milk chocolate icing. “He’s just not interested in playing them himself.”

“He should come and watch us play them, at least,” Niall says, making a note on a small post-it and sticking it to the sheet music.

That’s Niall’s job; tweaking Michael’s work until it flows beautifully. Harry does wish he could introduce the two of them. He’s pretty sure that if Niall and Michael teamed up to write a song, it could likely end world hunger or something.

“He doesn’t like clubs,” Harry says as he mixes his ingredients in a large yellow bowl.

“He’s our age?” Niall asks, which Harry pretends not to have heard by turning on his mixer. It’s premature, but the noise is enough to startle Niall into forgetting his question. “What’s with the baking?”

“I promised to bring some in to work tomorrow,” Harry says, which is technically not a lie. He’ll be sure to give one to Liam and Louis so that his story is solid, should Niall mention it next time they all hang out.

“If he doesn’t like clubs,” Niall continues. “Have you at least shown him one of the videos?”

“I honestly hadn’t thought of that,” Harry says, scratching at the back of his neck in consideration. He could do that; maybe burn a few of their videos to a thumb drive. If he can find his thumb drive, that is. That buggering thing disappears like it has a mind of its own every time Harry goes to find it. “I’ll do that next time I see him.”

“When you have a crush on someone,” Niall says with a laugh. “Your brain turns to jelly, I swear. How could you not have thought to show him a video?”

Harry blushes and doesn’t bother to correct Niall. Because he does have a crush. A giant, demisexual-style crush on this voice connected to—as far as Harry knows—two, fleeting and disembodied hands that occasionally make an appearance twice a week. He feels like he’s sixteen again, with an internet girlfriend in Canada. Not that he liked Evangeline even half as much as he likes Michael.

“Fuck off,” Harry says instead of defending himself. “I’ll show him the video.”

“And maybe ask him out,” Niall suggests, making Harry sigh to himself.

 

**

 

Harry sits cross-legged in front of the tiny door and waits for Michael to open it. He listens to the locks and makes note of the order in which Michael always flips them open—left to right, top to bottom. There are four locks on the miniature door, and Harry knows there are five on the main door itself.

“You came,” Michael says as soon as the door is open. Harry spies his bare feet and shins, clad in faded black skinny jeans. His big toe is painted black. And just like that, he steps to the side, out of Harry’s field of vision.

“I promised you cupcakes,” Harry says and slides a sturdy blue container through the door, careful to keep his fingertips out of the actual apartment. “Et voila.”

“You speak French?” Michael asks as his hand appears and swipes the container inside.

“Oui,” Harry says, making Michael laugh. “I took it for years, even at university. I’m proper fluent.”

“Impressive,” Michael says and Harry can hear him prying the top off the cupcake container. “Wow, Harry, these smell awesome.”

“Thanks,” Harry says, blushing a little when Michael makes a groaning sound that makes the hairs on Harry’s arm stand at attention. “I brought my guitar, too. I haven’t learned your song completely, but I wanted to play you the changes Niall suggested.”

“Cool,” Michael says, placing the cupcakes down on the floor with an audible tap. “Did you bring the sheets back? Let me see.”

Harry dutifully passes them through the little hole. While he’s waiting for Michael to read through Niall’s notes, he opens his guitar case and pulls out his acoustic, who he had named Desdemona. He plucks through the opening notes, as best as he can remember them after only playing it through a dozen times the night before.

“Yeah, these are good,” Michael says, playing his own guitar softly and incorporating Niall’s changes. “Tell him thanks.”

“You want to play it?” Harry asks, scooting closer to the open door. He tries to push away the temptation to lie flat and shove his head through the hole so he can finally get a glimpse of Michael’s face.

Instead of responding verbally, Michael begins to play. Harry jumps in immediately, darting his eyes down to his own photocopied version of the song. He knows Michael won’t sing, so Harry jumps in: “Young love, close the chapter, there’s no ever after…”

They play the entire song, with Michael’s voice curling around Harry’s in harmony for the chorus, and offering up a series of oh-ohh’s that do not appear on Harry’s page, but work perfectly with the song.

“Damn, Mikey,” Harry says after the song ends. He cringes a little at the nickname, unsure whether Michael is cool with it. “That’s another amazing tune. Love it.”

“Thanks,” he says and Harry thinks he can hear a smile in his voice. He hopes so. “Were the ohh’s good, or should I ditch them?”

“Keep them,” Harry insists. “You’re voice is like butter. You should sing more for me.”

“Maybe,” Michael says, definitely with a smile this time. And it’s not a no, so Harry pumps his fist in the air. Every inch of ground gained is a victory in Harry’s book.

“I brought something for you to watch,” Harry says, twisting his hips off the ground in order to pull his phone out. He hadn’t found his thumb drive, but he still had their last performance of ‘Amnesia’ on his phone. “I’m queuing up a video. Can I pass you my phone? You just have to hit play.”

Once again, Michael did not respond out loud. Instead, he held his hand out, not crossing the threshold from the apartment into the hallway. Harry leaned over his guitar and dropped his beat-up iPhone into Michael’s palm. His fingers come within millimeters of touching Michael’s.

Harry listens to himself introducing the song during their set, hears himself talk about the talented songwriter who had gifted the song to him. He had forgotten about that part and finds himself blushing again, dammit.

And then the music starts. Niall and he take turns singing the verses and he is in awe of Niall’s pure tone. He tends to take it for granted since he hears it so much, but hearing it like this, without the benefit of Niall at his side, or at least a visual of his friend, makes it more, somehow.

When the song ends, there is silence from the apartment. And then, the video starts again. Harry grins all through the second play through.

“Harry,” Michael says, his voice cracking. “Thank you. You’re beautiful. _That_ was beautiful.”

And holy shit. It hadn’t occurred to him that he was essentially handing Michael a tool that would allow him to see Harry for the first time ever. Shit.

“I always thought,” Michael says before Harry can recover. “That you’d be this big, beefy thing, all muscle-bent from carrying groceries and climbing stairs. But you’re, like. Jesus.”

“Hey, no fair,” Harry says, voice coming out a little gruffer than usual. He tries to clear his throat as quietly as possible. “I don’t know what you look like.”

“Don’t you have to get back to work?” Michael asks after another moment of silence. He holds out the phone with the tips of his fingers and waits for Harry to take it. Just as Harry’s hand covers the phone, Michael slides his fingers forward to touch the back of Harry’s hand. “Thanks for the cupcakes.”

The hair on Harry’s arms are at attention again, jolted into position by the feel of Michael’s soft skin on his. Stunned, once again, into shocked silence, he misses Michael closing the door. He blinks at the sound of the locks sliding home and gets to his feet. He presses close to the door, curling the hand Michael had touched into a fist.

“Bye,” he says, hoping Michael can hear him, but not wanting to speak louder. He packs up his guitar and sheet music, and makes for his car. He is going to be late for his next delivery, but it was worth it, Harry thinks.

When he gets into his car, he thumbs his phone to life to check the time, and is confronted by a picture of a purple-haired boy smiling at him. His eyes are clear green with more than a little grey in them. He’s got little spacers in his earlobes and a bar through his left eyebrow and his lips are deep pink and he is _lovely_.

Harry beats his palms against the steering wheel in his car, overcome with elation and excitement. This is not a tiny victory, taken in name only. This is huge. They have met. _Finally_.


End file.
